by ALAN TONER
Ted’s mouth dropped wide open in disbelief and puzzlement. What the HELL was going on in here tonight? He put the half-drained lager can down on the coffee table, and slowly sat forward. He turned his head around and looked over towards the hi-fi.
The guttural, almost surreal voice he then heard roaring through his head shocked him so much that he almost had a heart attack.
“Want ‘chains’, do you?” the voice said. “Well, I’LL give you chains!”
The unearthly sound of chains rattled again, but this time they brought something with them. Something extremely painful and unpleasant.
The heavy blow that suddenly struck Ted hard on the back of his head.
Instantly, the wonderfully white Christmas Eve he’d been hitherto enjoying became a horrible, cold, black one as he sank into oblivion.
“Dad, is that you?”
Gary O’Neil frowned and looked over at his bedroom door on hearing the slow, heavy footsteps ascending the stairs. The footsteps seemed abnormally loud, even overriding the high volume of the special effects of his Xbox shoot-‘em-up game. They sounded like those of some large, hulking giant, and a large, hulking giant Gary’s father definitely was not.
Pressing the Pause button on his Xbox game, Gary called out again when he got no answer. “Dad, did you hear me? Is that you?”
Still no answer. Just those strange footsteps, continuing to tread slowly, heavily, up the stairs.
Now they sounded as if they’d reached the top, and were starting to make their way along the landing, towards the door of Gary’s room. The floorboards out there creaked harshly under their weight.
Then a disturbing thought hit Gary: was there an intruder in the house? No, there couldn’t be. Not on Christmas Eve, the time of peace and goodwill, surely.
But have YOU shown people any ‘peace and goodwill’, young man? came a weird, echoing voice that somehow seemed to come from inside Gary’s head . . . and yet, it didn’t. Had it come from outside that door? God, he didn’t know. Was he going nuts? Oh God, he hoped not.
The footsteps stopped outside the boy’s door. A deathly silence hung over the whole house. Even the muffled music from his Beatles-mad father was no longer audible from downstairs. An icy shudder ran down Gary’s spine, and it was a shudder that came more from a mounting sense of unease than from any blast of cold December air. Something is wrong here, he thought anxiously. He didn’t know exactly what, but something was definitely wrong.
“D-Dad?” Though normally a brave boy by nature, on this strange, ominous occasion, Gary could not suppress the slight quiver of unease that had crept into his voice. “Dad, p-please answer me. Is . . . Is that you?”
No answer.
Gary almost swore out loud as his emotions whirled, as wildly as the whirling snowflakes outside, with impatience, annoyance, puzzlement . . . and, most profound of all, unease. If it wasn’t his father out there, then who on earth WAS it?
“Dad, if this is some kind of joke you’re playing . . .”
The words died in the boy’s throat as he saw the door handle slowly begin to turn. His eyes widened. A horrid sickly feeling gripped his stomach. He could almost hear his heart pounding in his ears. His mouth felt as dry as sandpaper. For some strange, unknown reason, he’d never felt so anxious, so disturbed – and, yes, so afraid – before in his life.
Slowly, with a creak even louder than the floorboards of the landing, the door opened.
An ice-cold, almost palpable waft of air blew into the bedroom, hitting Gary’s cheeks powerfully and almost causing him to fall backwards on the bed. He thought he heard the sound of chains rattling.
The door opened wider, wider.
And the figure that Gary saw standing there in the doorway almost caused him to pass out with shock and horror.
The figure framed in the doorway was like something that had just crawled out of hell itself. Large muscular body completely covered in fur, topped by an equally hirsute head from which sprouted a pair of goat-like horns. Red blazing eyes that glared at the boy balefully. A repulsively long, snakelike tongue that darted in and out of the creature’s fanged mouth. The thing walked on its hind legs, whose feet were just cloven hooves, giving it the aspect of the Devil himself.
In its right claw it gripped a long, thick chain that bore specks of rust, the bottom of which trailed along the ground as the creature began to slowly step into Gary’s room. The unnatural coldness that permeated the bedroom seemed to grow stronger and stronger with each step that the monstrous intruder took. It was now like a fridge in here, so that Gary could see wisps of his breath in front of him.
Dazed with shock, panic and fear, Gary opened his mouth to scream, but his vocal chords now seemed totally paralysed, and all that came out was a weak, pathetic gasp. In his terrified state, all he could do was just lie there on his bed, as stiff as a statue, and stare at the inhuman goat-thing that was, slowly but surely, making its way towards the side of his bed. It looked like something out of his worst nightmare, and Gary didn’t have nightmares very often. He hoped to God it was just a nightmare, and that he would wake up any second now before that monstrous thing could get within touching distance of his body.
But at the same time, another part of his brain was telling him that this was anything but a nightmare. It was real, all too real. And the thought made Gary wish with all his heart that he could be anywhere else in the world, anywhere at all, instead of in this room with this grotesque home invader.
And the more he stared at the creature, assimilating its anthropomorphic frame reluctantly, the more he was feeling a pang of familiarity about its appearance. Where had he seen this thing before?
Then he remembered.
It was on the piece of art paper that David Hawkins’s friend, Billy Johnson, had used to draw and paint that goat monster he’d called . . . what was it now? Kremper? Kromper? Krampus. Yes, that was it: Krampus. And Gary had mercilessly taken the Mickey out of Johnson’s drawing, hadn’t he? Oh yes he had. And now, weirdly, Gary felt the goat-thing that was now standing right over him sensed that he’d so ridiculed his classmate’s drawing. And not only that, but Gary was also getting strong vibes from this creature that it knew everything - every single misdemeanour, every ounce of hurt and pain and misery he’d dealt out to people, both old and young, as he’d wantonly and shamelessly gone about his life of bullying and vandalism – about him. Was that why this thing had decided to pay him a visit? Strangely, Gary somehow felt sure that it was. As crazy as the notion seemed, as far fetched as a story in a kid’s fairy tale book it might be, the thought made Gary’s blood run to ice water in his veins. He had never ever felt so afraid in his whole life.
Now the horned demon was holding up what looked like a large black sack, the kind of sack that Santa Claus himself might traditionally use to deliver presents to kids – GOOD kids, that is – on Christmas Eve night. But Gary got the disturbing feeling that the sack this monster was showing offered anything but Christmas presents, for it was empty, as if waiting for something – or somebody – to be thrown into it. The malevolent grin that slowly spread across the goat-thing’s hairy features seemed to emphasise this terrifying thought.
“You’ve been a naughty boy, Gary O’Neil,” the creature said in a spine-chilling, guttural voice. “Haven’t you? Oh yes, a very naughty boy.”
Gary opened his mouth in a desperate effort to verbally defend himself against the goat-thing’s accusation, but again he couldn’t find his voice, for his throat still felt tight and unresponsive due to the nerve-jarring experience that had unfolded in his bedroom. Instead, all he could do was to continue to lie there and stare into the monster’s piercing red, hypnotic eyes, eyes that seemed bore deep down into this very soul.
“Krampus does not like naughty children,” the scary counterpart to Saint Nicholas went on. “Krampus knows how to punish children who misbehave.” It shot out its glistening snake-like tongue again, its tip nearly licking against Gary’s face and causing hi
m to tilt his head back slightly to avoid it. The thing then retracted its tongue back into its mouth.
The creature’s next words almost caused Gary to pass out in sheer terror and panic: “And Krampus is certainly going to punish YOU!” That last word seemed to boom and echo through Gary’s brain, through the whole house. It could have been the voice of God, but to the trembling, petrified boy on the bed, it was more like the voice of the Devil.
The claw that was gripping the chain suddenly shot out towards Gary. The tip of the chain swung off the floor and cracked sharply against the wall behind the boy’s head like some hellish whiplash, then curled itself into a loop around his neck, like some terrifying lasoo. Gary instantly felt the blood rush to his head as the hard, cold metal tightened around his throat in a vicelike grip. For one horrible moment, he thought he was going to be decapitated, such was the unbelievably omnipotent pressure being applied to that chain. He gasped for air, choked, retched, tried so desperately to tear the flesh-biting chain from his neck. But no matter how much he struggled, the chain continued to cling to his throat, pinching his flesh painfully as it continued to tighten and tighten.
Krampus, with one mighty jerk of his arm, pulled the chain towards him. Taut and so unbreakable, the chain brought the helpless, struggling boy with it. With the other claw, Krampus moved the sack it held forward, mouth gaping wide open and black, ready to accommodate a fresh naughty child. And on this occasion, that naughty child was, of course, Gary O’Neil, the incorrigible, pestiferous school bully and anti-social tearaway.
All arrogance, bravery and toughness now completely drained away from him, like dirty water down a plughole, Gary finally managed to utter some kind of protesting sound from his chain-choked throat. He intended a loud scream, in the hope that somebody somewhere would hear him, but all that came out was futile, pathetic, strangulated gasp. The room span crazily before his dazed vision as Krampus, viciously and mercilessly, meted out a punishment that had been a long time coming.
The wide-open sack loomed nearer and nearer to Gary’s face.
And all visions of the wonderful white Christmas scene outside his snow-flecked window were totally blacked out as the deep, deep darkness of Krampus’s sack enveloped him.
Bully Gary O’Neil certainly wasn’t the only naughty child that Krampus came for on that cold Christmas Eve night, for there were quite a few other bad children - most of them members of Gary’s local gang of hooligans - who also got an unexpected little visit from the retributive goat demon.
Just like it had been with the O’Neil boy, Krampus had no difficulty at all seeking out and claiming his young prey, one by one. He went about his Christmas Eve rounds with all the ease of Santa delivering his presents, albeit in a much darker fashion.
By the early hours of Christmas morning, Krampus’s job had been completed, and he proceeded to make his way back to his netherworld lair, already mentally savouring the act of dumping all the naughty boys and girls in his sack into the eternal blackness which they all, without exception, so deserved. Oh yes, he congratulated himself, it had been a good night, and a job well done.
It was, indeed, a beautifully white Christmas for everybody in the town that year, especially for all the little well-behaved girls and boys.
By contrast, it was, of course, a very black one for all those kids who had been naughty.
Especially for bully boy Gary O’Neil and his band of anti-social idiots.
Boxing Day.
“So, er, the police are still baffled by all the disappearances of those kids?” David asked his friend Billy, as he watched the Grinch movie with him on the large HD television in front of them. Billy had popped around to David’s house for a few hours, as he always did on Boxing Day.
Billy nodded, eyes never leaving the screen. “Yeah, apparently.” He reached for another mince pie from the plate resting on his knee. “Weird, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.”
Hardly seeming all that concerned about all the strange disappearances they were discussing, Billy took a bite of the mince pie and expressed his enthusiasm as he munched on it. “Mmmm, these are delicious.”
“Should be. Mum bought them from the best bakers in town.”
The conversation fell silent for a few seconds, then Billy said, “Funny what happened with one or two of their parents too, wasn’t it?”
David looked at him quizzically. “How d’you mean?”
Billy shrugged. “Well, apparently, a couple of the mums and dads had bruises on their heads. They think they were knocked out cold in their homes, probably by some intruder, but when they came to, they couldn’t remember a single thing. Then they were shocked, of course, when the police told them that their kids had been snatched.”
“Yeah,” David said, a mystified, thoughtful expression etched on his face. “It was weird, wasn’t it? Horrible shock too for all those poor parents.”
Then a mischievous glint seemed to appear in Billy’s eye as he looked sideways at his friend. “Bet you’re glad, though, aren’t you?”
David shot him a questioning stare. “Glad about what?”
“Well, glad that your old friend - or should I say fiend - Gary O’Neil just happened to be one of the kids who were snatched.”
David seemed to struggle for an answer for a few seconds. Then he shrugged and said, “Well, you have to admit, Bill, he was a pain in the backside, wasn’t he?”
Billy uttered a rueful sigh. “Yeah, he was. A BIG pain.”
“And the teachers couldn’t seem to sort him out, could they?”
“No, they couldn’t. They were bloody hopeless.”
“You can say that again.”
Outside, the heavy snow of Christmas Eve had long since stopped falling, leaving everywhere coated in a crisp blanket of whiteness. A few parts of the street had become rather slippery as some patches of snow had started to freeze over, and people passing by had to walk very gingerly to ensure they stayed on their feet.
“So the police have got quite a job on their hands, haven’t they?” David said. “Trying to find out who was responsible for taking all those kids.”
Billy gave a nod, swallowing the last piece of his mince pie and licking his lips savouringly. “Yeah, they have. It’s unbelievable, isn’t it? Strangest thing that’s ever happened in this town.” He shook his head at the thought, but somehow he still didn’t look all that worried, at least not to David. The slight grin that seemed to be playing about the corners of his mouth certainly suggested this.
“I know.”
On the TV, the Grinch movie had now come to an end, and the presenter announced that up next was an old repeat of The Morecambe and Wise Christmas Show.
“So, did you get everything you wanted for Christmas then, Billy?”
Billy nodded at his friend. “Sure did.”
David smiled. “That’s good. I did too.”
“Very glad to hear it, mate.” A few seconds pause. Then Billy went on: “Dad bought me a great new artists’ set too.”
Arching his eyebrows, David looked at him. “Really?”
“Oh yeah. The best one on the market today. I’m really made up with it.”
“Bet you are. Your dad spoils you rotten.”
Billy smiled smugly. “I know. In fact, I’ve brought a little something along that I thought you might like to see.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Hang on a sec.” Billy put down his plate of mince pies, leaned forward and reached into the large white carrier bag on the floor by his feet. He rummaged around inside and produced a large sheet of white art paper. Holding it by the sides close to his chest, he showed it to David, who immediately rolled his eyes when he saw what was on the paper. “Krampus again?”
“Yeah, and why not? I love drawing Krampus.” He moved the drawing closer to David’s face. “Like it?”
David had to admit that this new drawing of the Christmas demon was every bit as good as the one Billy had drawn in art class last week, if n
ot more so. The same ferocious looking, hairy, horned, snake-tongued monster that, according to legend, brought a darker side to Christmas as far as punishing naughty kids was concerned.
David was about to compliment his friend on the drawing when the words froze in his throat as he noticed something different about this particular picture. And that difference sent a mixture of shock and distaste coursing through his system.
On this occasion, Billy had not only portrayed Krampus as a lurid, menacing entity, but he had also given him a bit more edge, and quite an unpleasant edge at that, David thought with a slight shudder. Unlike in the previous drawing, Krampus was not just trailing his chain along the ground, but this time he had actually wrapped it around the neck of a struggling young boy. With another stroke of his artistic, albeit morbid, genius, Billy had illustrated the boy’s screaming terror as vividly and perturbingly as he’d depicted Krampus’s snarling wrath. Repulsive long tongue protruding from his mouth like some grotesquely glistening worm, the Christmas demon was depicted pulling his young victim off his feet with the chain and towards the gaping mouth of a large black sack that Krampus held in his other claw. Oh my God, David thought, Billy had really gone over the top this time.
“Well, do you like it or not?” Billy said again.
Billy swallowed hard. “Er, yeah, yeah, it’s very good.” Then he noticed something else in the illustration. At first he thought it was just spots of red paint that Billy had spilt whilst painting his picture, but on closer examination he saw that those red spots seemed to be . . . drops of blood. Yes, without a doubt, they were drops of blood. Dripping down from the struggling, screaming boy’s body and forming a horrible red pool on the ground. Oh my God . . .
Mouth dropping open with shock and disbelief, David shot Billy a questioning stare . . . and saw that his friend’s lips had widened into a strange kind of grin, a grin that David didn’t like at all, a grin that looked a little more than mischievous. It looked like a wicked, triumphant grin, as if Billy had achieved something very unspeakable. That grin disturbed David so much.